After some time, I let the gray mare roam in a nearby field, and after some time with an old chestnut horse, La Chunga became pregnant. I realized or suspected it months later and then decided to take special care of that little animal on its way.

While searching for information on how to tame it without using violence, I found the option of “Indian taming.” The name particularly appealed to me because I had been researching and learning about our indigenous peoples for some years. In fact, my little field is called “Charrúa y Chaná.”

Among many taming methods, the one by an Argentine named Scarpati, who lived with a Mapuche Indian as a child, caught my attention. He had passed on the wisdom of “living intensely the art of taming horses with love and respect, while discovering a direct path to personal growth.” I started watching videos and reading about this man and his craft, and I was convinced that this was what I wanted for “the little Chungo” and for myself.

A few months later, against all veterinary predictions due to her age, that old mare gave birth to a foal in December. That evening, in the twilight, very close to the little shack and under an old anacahuita tree, I embraced her and him, gently laid him on the ground, and carefully lay down on him, feeling his breath throughout my body and vice versa until we both calmed down. That day, his first day, was also mine as an “Indian tamer.” We began to trust each other; it was just the beginning.

I won't explain what the “Scarpati Indian taming” consists of, nor could I convey what it feels like when we humbly become equals, rather than a superior being in front of the horse. I can only say that something changed in me. We learned together.

I leave his mane and tail long, as I imagine the Charrúa horses had 300 or 400 years ago. I pass underneath him, deliberately brushing my back against his belly; I stand behind him, leaning my whole body against his haunches; he stays still for long periods as if knowing that I would fall if he moved (he knows); I ride bareback without a bridle or halter, and he takes me where I want to go, just by shifting my weight subtly from side to side, barely pulling on the mane; if I let my legs hang and lean my body slightly back, he stops. I gently press my knees and move my chest forward to start him walking, slowly, without hurry.

I forgot to mention that I’m a city man without the basic knowledge to handle a horse. Maybe that's for the best, starting our relationship without preconceptions, unlearning if necessary. Remembering, recovering ancestral knowledge, and embodying deep ecology with passion heals us, restores us, and projects us into a simpler and fuller life.

Chungo is now five years old, and two years ago, he broke a leg. Since then, I haven't ridden him because it hurts. But every time I arrive, he raises his head, pricks his ears, and comes to greet me. I pat his haunch and belly, stroke his legs and hooves, scratch his forehead and chin, and hug him. He leans into me, sniffs me, walks away a bit, and comes back. I hug him again. I love him a lot, I have to say it.
We are good friends.